Huia Short Stories 11 (8 page)

I was five when Koro came over to tell us Aunty Pare had died. His smile was sad and his voice crackled. ‘Your Great Aunty Pare died, moko. She had a heart attack.'

Who? I had too many aunties to remember them by name.

‘You know her, moko. Aunty Pare, big lady. Big mouth. She wore bright red lipstick and flash clothes even though she had no money. You know Mania, Wiremu, Levi, Kahurangi and the bubba. All her moko?'

Ohhh, Aunty Pare. I could hear her quivering voice now, ‘Give your aunty a kiss, that's a good boy!' She used to squash my body against hers until I was suffocating in her rolls of fat. She had big lips too and would drown my face until I was dripping with saliva.

Aunty Pare was only seventy-two when she died, but that was old for Māori. We are destined to die young because we drink too much, smoke too much and eat too much. That's what Koro used to say, anyway.

Aunty Pare wanted to be buried next to her husband in Porirua. Koro said we all had to go down to show our respect, even if it was a ten-hour journey. I didn't want to go because I knew all of us kids would have to squeeze in the back of the bomb. I could still dredge up the taste of toe jam feet in my mouth, because I was always made to sit on the floor, even though we were supposed to take turns. I could hardly breathe down there and I almost did a mimi in my pants twice. Hemi got heaps carsick and we had to keep stopping so he could throw up out the window.

‘You might learn a thing or two, my moko,' Koro told us on the way. ‘Tangata ako ana i te whare, te tūranga ki te marae, tau ana. Tangi are very sad, but they are also very special. No one deals with death better than Māori.'

‘Are you going to die soon, Koro? I don't want you to die,' I replied.

‘No, moko. Koro eats all his veggies and the only drinks I touch are water and herbal tea. That's why I am so big and strong, moko.

‘But you smoke,' I replied, under my breath.

‘A karanga is the chant of a Māori woman welcoming us on to their marae. She is arousing the spirits of those who have passed, moko. Listen carefully.'

I did. Her high-pitched cry was haunting and it scared me a little. As we stepped forward, accepting her peculiar invitation, my little fingers found comfort and solace in gripping Koro's hand.

It was strange to think that now, my fingers were gripping onto the handles of his coffin.

With every step towards the marae, I was accepting Koro's death. I was submitting to the fact that I would never see him again. The echo of the woman's shrill greeting was drowned out by the hurt that gouged at my heart. A part of me wanted to run away. I could go back to the river, to the library, or to Nanny's grave. I bet no one would even notice I was gone. Mum walked with me, tears swelling down her cheeks. She hadn't stopped crying since she heard the news. My eyes dropped back down to the grass in front of me. Each step was harder than the one before, like I was climbing a mountain and trying my hardest to reach the top. My arms throbbed with pain but I wasn't sure why. The coffin wasn't even heavy.

Aunty Pare's was the first dead body I had ever seen. I wondered if she looked the same. What if she came back alive and grabbed my hand?

‘Did they have to make an extra-large special coffin in her size, Koro?' I asked.

Koro slapped the top of my head. ‘Turituri, moko!' I knew he was trying not to laugh, though. The corners of his mouth twitched.

‘Koro, who's that?' I pointed to the lady sitting on the edge of the coffin. She reminded me of a zombie in a scary movie. Her tangled web of hair shielded half of her face and her body moved like a puppet with no strings attached.

‘That's Aunty Pare's oldest daughter, moko. May. We must go and pay her our respects before we see Aunty Pare.'

May didn't notice anyone else around her, even when we went up and kissed her. Her face was all blotchy from crying and her eyes were bloodshot.

I wondered if that was what I looked like now.

Koro knelt down next to Aunty Pare. He took his hat off and closed his eyes for a minute or so, mumbling something under his breath. When they opened, he leaned in and stroked her face before giving her a kiss on the cheek. Koro looked up at me as if to say, your turn. I shook my head in protest but he gestured for me to come forward. ‘Kaua e mataku ī te hunga mate. Don't be scared, Niko. It's your Aunty. She is whānau. Haere mai.'

I tiptoed over to Koro, anxious at what was awaiting me inside the coffin. I hoped she didn't come back alive. With all the courage I could find, I peered over to take a look. Loud and boisterous Aunty Pare, who used to suffocate me with kisses and hugs, whose voice and witchlike laugh could be heard from miles away, now lay emotionless, like she was in a deep sleep and her soul had been sucked out of her body. Aunty Pare's skin was frosty white except for her lips, which were painted bright red.

‘She looks pretty aye, moko?'

I nodded. Aunty Pare always looked pretty.

‘Give her a kiss, moko.' He held on to my shoulders as I leaned in to kiss her cheek. It felt like my lips had touched ice and it gave me the creepers.

It was different with Koro. At first, it felt like a sharp cold prick on the edge of my thumb, but soon I could no longer feel the frostiness when I stroked him. I traced my thumb along his tā moko, the small koru pattern starting at his neck where the journey of his life started, then across his cheek and all the way to his forehead, where his life had now ended. The creases in his face that signified years of hard work and heartache. Koro lay peacefully, and I was pleased, because even though his eyes were closed, his mouth was smiling.

I hope your death wasn't too painful, Koro. I'm sorry I wasn't there to pat your back as you coughed up your last breath. I'm sorry I wasn't there to tell you it was going to be okay. I te mutunga he pai. Ahakoa ehara i te pai, ehara tēnei i te mutunga. I know you liked hearing that
.

Mum dressed Koro up in a suit and his favourite black bucket hat. His worst-kept secret (his cigar) sat at the end of the coffin, along with an assortment of flowers, letters and photos. The cigar made me smile slightly as I remembered how Koro would try to conceal the smoke with this awful aftershave that made the smell even worse. He would hop about on one foot, towel in one hand, shaking it about like a mad man.
Bloody neighbours and their smoke, moko! Just getting rid of some of the fumes from next door!

All of a sudden, it hit me. I would never experience that memory again. I would never hear his laugh, his voice, his stories or see him hop about on one foot. All of the happiness and joy that filled my heart from remembering Koro's crazy antics disappeared. Now all I could feel was the deep dark reality of misery.

The ringing of laughter and blurred conversations startled me. Kids were squealing, balls bounced as footsteps trampled along the concrete. Waiata were being sung as seagulls and cicadas squawked along. When I went out of the marae, it didn't feel like I was at a tangi.

At Aunty Pare's funeral, Koro told me to go play with the rest of the mokopuna. Play? How could anyone have fun when someone just died?

‘Go on, moko. Tākaro with the other mokopuna. Haere tonu.'

I shook my head stubbornly. ‘No, Koro, I want to stay with you.' I wrapped my arms around his leg to show him I wasn't going anywhere.

‘All right, moko! But don't you get bored and change your mind when the kaumātua starts talking! You stay with Koro.'

And I did. I never left his side.

I didn't want to leave Koro now, either. I wanted to lie next to him in the marae forever.

Mum made me go to the dining hall to have some kai. There were rooms built outside the marae the kuia slept in. It was also where we stored our belongings. I stopped by to grab my jumper.

As I went to open the door, I heard two men speaking in low voices, like they were trying not to be heard.

‘I haven't heard anything about it! Your father never mentioned it to me or any of the kaupapa.'

‘Is there something you aren't telling me, e kare? Ka pū te ruha, ka hao te rangatahi. I am his oldest son.'

‘Kāo, Elliot. He has not told us of his plans and he has not discussed it with me or any of the others. I understand your concerns, but this is not the time and place to discuss it!'

I knew straight away who that raspy tone belonged to. Uncle Elliot. What was he talking about, and why were they talking quietly, like they didn't want anyone to hear? I couldn't recognize the other voice. His tone was not as forceful as Elliot's, but I could sense the anger in the way he spoke.

The door creaked open and out walked Elliot. At first he looked flustered, but his face twisted even more at the sight of me hovering over my shoes.

‘Haere atu!' he growled at me before storming off. Behind him, an old man hesitantly followed. Henare Potiki, the chairperson of the marae. What did Elliot want with him? I made my way to the dining area, confused about what I had just heard.

The aroma of fresh hāngī welcomed me. That was the one good thing about tangi – the food. Before me on the table were generous portions of kūmara, pork, mutton, chicken, pumpkin, carrot, potato and fried bread. Usually I would attack the food like a wild animal, devouring everything on my plate until I couldn't fit any more in my puku. I used to stuff more food in my pockets, just in case I got hungry later. I looked at all the food now, and even the sweet smell of kūmara couldn't tempt me. I watched Elliot attack the chicken with his teeth, sucking on the bones and tossing them aside on his plate as he helped himself to more. Well, at least one of us had an appetite.

Tonight was the pō whakangahau, the night before the burial where whānau shared stories, had a few laughs and sung waiata. Those who laughed and mocked Koro when he was alive could now act as if they were his best friend.

Uncle Elliot was the first to speak, addressing the whānau and thanking them for coming. Elliot spoke about his childhood with Koro, and how he was proud to take over as the kaumātua of Pohe Bay. Like always, he turned the speech around to make it about him. Afterwards, he stood there like he expected applause for his dumb talk.

Mum managed to stop crying to say a few words of gratitude to those who'd come. Aunties, uncles, cousins I had never met all got up to speak about Koro. Tu spoke with confidence about how he loved his Koro. He sure had a funny way of showing it.

One particular man, who looked as old as Koro, was the only one who managed to put a smile on my face. ‘Tangaroa was his name, but we used to call him “the man” 'cause he was.' His face wrinkled with laughter and he got a soft look in his eyes. ‘Yup, I went to school with Tangaroa. We were like two peas. Grew up together. Went to school together and even chased wāhine together! He had a way with women that a lot of us envied. He could probably teach you fullas a thing or two about picking up a woman, 'cause boy …' he whistled, ‘he got a few nice wāhine in his time.'

Laughter spread throughout the marae.

‘I remember the day he first met Marika. We were about sixteen, walking through town causing mischief like usual and we couldn't believe our luck! He told me she was the most beautiful wahine he had ever seen, and even though I agreed, the old bugger baggsed her. This confident man went up to her and said, “Eh girl, what's a pirinitete like you doing in a place like Pohe Bay? Did you come from heaven?” He was used to wāhine falling at their knees because of his charm and good looks. But Marika didn't blink twice. She told him to get lost, and boy that made Tangaroa mad. He wasn't used to rejection you know. Anyway, we didn't see Marika again until the next year. Turns out she was related to the Pirihi whānau so she came and stayed in the holidays every year. Tangaroa kept trying every time he saw her, but Marika's a tough cookie. After three years she gave in to him.'

He stopped and paused for a minute to look at the coffin.

‘Now he gets to be with her forever. Rest in peace, brother.'

He looked up and caught my eye. He smiled as he handed me the rākau. I could feel the burning sensation of eyes waiting for me to speak, all probably wondering what the sad pōrangi boy was going to say.

I heard Koro's voice in my ear: ‘Kia tere, moko! Don't be shy! Tell them how proud you are to be my grandson, that you are Nikora Te Kainga-Mataa, grandson of the great Tangaroa Henare Te Kainga-Mataa. That's your whānau, moko! Stand up proud and declare your love for me! Don't be whakamā!'

I wanted to make him proud, to tell them all how much I loved him, but instead I sounded like this: ‘I-I-I … love … [gulp] … love … love … Ko … [gulp] … ro … I-I … [gulp].'

I ducked my head in shame and quickly passed the rākau to the person next to me. I was so useless, I couldn't even stand up in front of my own whānau and speak.

My eyes welled up with tears. I collapsed by Koro's side, my head resting on his freezing cheek.

Koro, why did you leave me?

I cried tears for my Koro who I would never see again; I cried tears for Mum, but mostly I cried because I needed to face the truth. I was alone in this world. I had no one.

When it was time to say our final goodbye, we moved towards the coffin like morbid slugs. We didn't want to say goodbye yet. We sung Tama Ngākau Marie, his favourite waiata, but all I could hear was Mum's shrilling cry. My knees started to feel like jelly.

Will I see you again, Koro?

I wept in my head, remembering what Koro told me at Aunty Pare's tangi. ‘The closing of the coffin is the saddest part, moko. This is the last chance we get to see our loved ones in this life. We will see Aunty Pare again. Just not in this life. But one day, moko.'

His words gave me little comfort. I took one last look at his face, my last goodbye to Koro. I would remember that goofy smile forever. Saliva started to drip from the corner of his mouth. It was time. Time for Koro to go home and time for me to do my important job for him. I lifted the coffin with one hand.